That morning, Dog had taken a wave from the outside shoulder off Japan Ned, which led to a dispute over whether Dog, as a stand-up paddleboarder, had priority because he was on his feet, or Japan Ned had right of way because he was positioned on the inside of the wave. Two laws of the surf, incompatible with each other. You’d have needed a lawyer to sort it out, except that one of the parties to the action already was. Two middle-aged men who had peacefully shared the break for decades had emerged from the froth shouting obscenities at each other. Ned’s, while in Japanese, were certainly obscene. Dog made his point about being on his feet, and the former state champ had chipped in, ‘Fucken paddleboarders—fuck off and take the kook waves on your own.’ Even Japan Ned motioned aggressively towards the north end, where no self-respecting local would go. This sent Dog into a tirade in which he undiplomatically mentioned the war, or words to the effect of ‘Tora! Tora! Tora!’, which in turn plunged Japan Ned into a menacing brood, and he soon left the beach.

‘Just apologise,’ Gordon said.

‘For what? I was on me fucken feet first!’

‘For mentioning the war.’

‘Oh right.’ Dog studied his dangling ember. ‘I can’t make head or tail of what he’s saying. The risk is if I mention the war again, even if I’m apologising for the first time, he might take it the wrong way. He might even go and surf at Capri. I couldn’t have that on my conscience.’

‘You’re on a roll,’ Gordon said. ‘Maybe when you’ve had a run-in with every last person in this place, you can consider your work done.’

‘Hundred percent, there’s something in the air, people are all on their fucken rag.’ A maudlin flush came over Dog. ‘Even Benny’s giving me the stink-eye. I’ve got no idea what I’ve done.’

Gordon shook his head to put an end to the subject. He might have it all out with Dog one day, but not here, not now. Where did you start? Gordon and Kelly were ‘working it out’, they told people, but Kelly had worked him out a long time ago. The marriage had been like bushland drying out for lack of rain. Dog was just the convenient spark, Kelly’s match. As Gordon’s father used to say, when tapping a cigarette out of its packet, ‘You got a match? My bum and your face.’ It had been Kelly who decided incineration was what the marriage needed. She just didn’t think through all the consequences. Such as everyone ending up here.

‘Listen …’ Dog said through a confidential shaft of smoke out the side of his mouth. ‘There were a couple of developments while you and Benny were Up North.’

‘Developments,’ Gordon said, trying to quell the anxiety waking up in his gullet.